Let’s see. When I subtract
- highly personal observations about my students that are unpublishable unless I really want to earn the title WWT
- irritated observations about my thanksgiving weekend, most of which fall under the tiresomely repetitive theme, “why does everyone wait for the last minute to invite us over?”
- work stress, most of which falls under the general statement, “what if they find out that I’m a fuckup?”
- frustrated desires to continue my knitting social life of the summer
- stories about Blake ordering everyone around
…I’m not left with very much. So I’ll tell a story about Blake, a story about work, and a left-over nibblet of conversation from Friday night.
Blake has changed his bedtime from 7 to "whenever the hell he keels over". I wouldn’t be concerned, except for the fact that he STILL WAKES UP AT 5. Do you know how tiring it is to spend all night trying to get him into bed, only to be woken up at 5 a.m.? Or even better, at 2:30, like on Monday night?
Last night we were all lying down together, with the idea that we could peer-pressure him to bed (note: much less effective than other kinds of peer pressure). At some point, Nic came down and sat in the rocking chair.
”I can’t go out tonight,” he explained, “so you’re my drama.”
Blake was put out by this development. “Go back upstairs to your room!” he demanded. We all smirked.
”You’re new here,” I explained, “but even you must know that Nic doesn’t listen to anybody.” This seemed to mollify him, and he didn’t even get unduly upset when Nic lay down in his toddla bed.
(One of my cute co-workers was telling me that she’s single, so she needs to get out so it doesn’t get lonely. I wondered what it was like to be lonely in one’s own house. I don’t even think I can remember that far back.)
Today at a department meeting we veered away from system goals into metafiction & dystopias. I mentioned V for Vendetta and Infinite Jest to my department head (who really deserves the C. Thomas moniker, unlike my unworthy former head), and he said (jokingly) that I should be teaching the 12 course.
”I’d love to, but no one’s ever trusted me with the 12 course.” I said.
”You’re not supposed to say that!” snorted the woman across the table.
”Uh, there was a whole blood ritual and naked dancing, and I didn’t want to have any part of it.” I wildly tried to cover my tracks.
I wonder if he bought it. I wonder if he was serious. No one’s ever even joked about giving me a 12 course, so that’s something. It’s nice to dream. In some ways I don’t think I’ll feel like a real English teacher until I’ve braved the most senior of senior courses. I got a taste of it in Nova Gothic, but Grace & C. Thomas (original flavour) would never think of including me in this upper echelon. I guess it’s up to Bat Masterson to make me a real teacher.
In the course of Friday night’s conversation, I found out that one of Sula’s friends grew up on Salt Spring Island. The Boy immediately began to trade notes on celebrity sightings. Then we found out: she knew Valdy. Like, grew up with his daughter, spent the night at the house, was at his third wedding, knew him. She was surprised that we knew him at all.
I never thought that at 30, I’d be discovering common ground with my generation through the folk scene. Heh. I’m old.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*